Rebecca Lieberman

April 23^rd, 2001

English C/Ms. Ahooja

I stand on the cold steps, looking intently at the faint outline of Papa’s construction site through the dim haze; scanning the jagged skyline with my eyes. They continue to scan the horizon, then fixate on the slender spire of Saint Chapelle, its richly patterned windows reflecting slivers of white light onto its surrounding shadow. The morning’s dark fog settles, revealing only the blurry reflection of the cathedral in the Seine. I stare at the simple splatter of gray on the river’s surface and am then stricken by the fierce winter winds. I turn around, remembering that I have forgotten my lunch, and I enter my house. I am welcomed by the cold, dark interior and my mother reminding me I have forgotten my lunch as she hands me a brown canvas sack labeled "Catrine" in blue smudged ink. She gives me a quick kiss on the cheek, a sweet goodbye and reminds me to be careful at Papa’s construction site. I leave my house, quietly shutting the door; leaving my mother, my cold, dark home and the scent of her French cooking behind me. My cheek is then whipped by the damp winter air, as I continue toward the edge of the Seine with my lunch sack in hand. I near the edge of the river and the black wooden crossing bridge; nearing the sounds of fierce picks and knives cutting stone and the gray glassy surface of the Seine. I cross the small bridge sluggishly, place my lunch sack across my shoulder and continue along the narrow path, nearing the colossal gray structure and the trail of fierce sounds. Nearing the slender stone beams and thick slabs of gray stone arranged carefully on wooden carts, I hear the sounds of scraping picks and fierce hammering, as I see Papa sluggishly pulling a wooden cart behind him, his face tainted with smudged soil. "Catrine," he calls affably, the words forever suspended from his tongue, resounding in the vast space. "Papa," I respond quietly, still astonished by the cathedral’s colossal gray walls, its slender stone beams, and the rich smell of construction workers vigorously hammering at granite slabs. I emerge from my daze, rushing immediately towards Papa, as my lunch sack is suspended from a strap across my shoulder. I give Papa an abrupt kiss on the cheek, loop my extraordinarily long, lanky arms around his neck and continue to inquire about the construction of the cathedral.

"Papa," the words begin their emergence from my mouth, as I pause in silence, inhaling quickly. "How is the construction progressing?"

"The construction is nearly complete," he says, his words once again resounding in the vast space. "We have yet to erect the spire, and complete the interior…The buttresses are nearly finished and the tiles for the rose window on the east wall will arrive shortly."

I glance upward, once again scan every inch of the cathedral, perusing every slender beam, every milky gray stone wall and recognizing its immensity. "Come, Catrine. It is almost the lunch our for the construction workers," he begins. "I see Maman has packed you a lunch," he continues, firmly clutching my coarse canvas lunch sack. I glance quickly at the workers, their faces soiled with milky gray streaks, as they sluggishly pull large wooden carts behind them. "Phillipe!" Papa then yells, as I then emerge from my daze. I poke Papa spryly with my elbow, leaning my head into his soiled chest as I hiss "Phillipe?"

"Yes," Papa begins a he slowly angles his head toward my ear. "Phillipe is the apprentice of the glass maker at the workshop. These are the tiles for the rose window on the East wall." I stare intently at the man; the man who is concealed in a soiled apron under a brown cloak, the man with dark stubble lining his angular jaw and luminous black hair framing his olive skin. He pulls a square wooden cart casually behind him, strewn with piles of intricately ornamented tiles, as he tediously approaches Papa.

"Christopher!" Phillipe utters as his words slowly emerge. "Here are the window panes."

"Merci Phillipe," Papa proceeds, walking over to the cart and removing an intricately patterned tile. Gripping the pane, he holds it up to the sun’s blinding reflection; as the opulent patterns reflect slivers of colored light onto the ground and its piercing edges are illuminated.

"Papa," I inquire, "You never told me." I pause casually, inhaling the rich scent of the evening. "What is the cathedral going to be called" Papa shuffles, as he scrapes the loose ground with his shoes, the effulgent light illuminating his olive sun-stained skin.

"Notre Dame," Phillipe encroaches. "It is called ‘Our Lady’ in honor of our Lady the Virgin Mary." I inhale the rich scents of the construction, scanning each illuminated tile, while marveling at the beauty of the cathedral. The brilliant light of day is now veiled beneath the piercing horizon line, as the sky is now streaked with gold threads and splattered with rich crimson. I have not yet consumed my lunch, as a clutch my lunch sack, examining the individual items through the thick canvas. The sunset now darkens to a rich indigo, as Papa and begin to return home. We are embraced again by the scent of Mama’s cooking, two candles illuminating the dim room as we begin the evening meal. "Mama," I utter, looping my arms tightly around her waist, "Notre Dame is exquisite."

"Notre Dame?" she inquires.

" ‘Our Lady,’ in honor of the Virgin Mary."

"Oh," Mama continues, returning my embrace. "Useful to know." She ushers me casually to the dinner table, the dim room illuminated solely by the candle light, and serves the evening meal. Sitting in the silence of the dim room, I am drawn to the small window on the front of the house. Seeing the reflection of the crescent moon on the Seine, a simple splatter of silver light on the black water, I see the dark silhouette of Papa’s cathedral amongst the blue sky. "Notre Dame," I utter to myself, glancing down at my plate and continuing with the meal.